


The games we play

by ScarliteVendetta



Category: Cinderella (1950), Cinderella (2015), Cinderella - All Media Types
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 06:57:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20990714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarliteVendetta/pseuds/ScarliteVendetta
Summary: Lady Tremaine is struggling with severe weak knees brought on by an unexpected confession of her stepdaughter.Oneshot, smutty. Lady Tremaine's POV





	The games we play

**Author's Note:**

> So, I started writing this a while back, having more in mind than just a one shot, but it never happened. Some stories write themselves, others are struggles, this was a struggle. In spite of that I would still like to share it with you. 
> 
> Please read, and enjoy. 
> 
> And oh yeah, no betas and not a native speaker so yeah.

Sometimes I look at myself and shudder at what I have become. Don’t get me wrong, I was never a gentle soul. Always the bully, never the bullied. I was a lonely child, an only child. I never learned to share my mother’s love or my father’s disapproval. She died before she could teach me how to be loved and his love was never unconditional. For every kind word ten lashings, for every gift something was taken from me. This is what shaped me into not my mother’s daughter, but always my father’s child. Although I was blessed with my mother’s face, hair and eyes. Beautiful, but not on the inside. 

I was but a child when I was married of and had my own daughters. Daughters I had no idea how to love. They were my own so I gave them whatever they desired, but I couldn’t teach them how to love. How to be anything but my shadows. Every bit as shallow, self absorbed and vicious as I have always been. Never the bullied, always the bully. Watching them brings me no joy, just like looking in the mirror no longer brings me any pleasure. 

I am past my prime, not quite an old hag yet, there is still some beauty to behold, although that beauty has become more and more reliant upon poise, grace, the right dress, the right make up and the right lighting. It fades a little more each day, slipping through my fingers like time itself. Even when I was as breathtaking as the sunrise, my beauty never ran deep. It was just a small layer of varnish covering up the ugliness inside. I used to think this held true for all things of beauty. I don’t believe that any more. 

Time is running out for me. Like no other I know how death can suddenly claim a person. I have lost two husbands. The first one’s death was a blessing, a liberation. I chose my second husband because he was kind and seemed easy to control. His death wasn’t as welcome. He left me cold and alone, in charge of his run down estate and his brat. I wouldn’t have chosen such a fate, but not all things in life can be controlled. 

Anastasia and Drizilla are mine. I can easily control them because I understand their desires. They’re simple and shallow. They want to be adored, to be desired, to be spoiled, the way I have all their lives. They’re nice looking girls, if not a little plain and soon I will find them suitable husbands. Some men are attracted to arrogance, that kind of men enjoy putting women on a pedestal. Such men will make fine husbands for my girls. It’s the least I can do to ensure their happiness. 

The brat I can’t control. She’s completely alien to me, not mine. I don’t understand her. Even when I order her around and she does my bidding she is never fully under my control. No matter how I punish her, she will not break. There is always hope left in her heart and though she might cry or show other signs of distress she bounces back each time I try to bring her down. There is never fear in her eyes when she faces me, no signs or reproach whenever she approaches me. The spring refuses to leave her step. 

It didn’t leave when I made her give up her bedroom, nor when I turned her into a maid. She continued to smile when I took all her pretty smocks and dressed her up in rags. It didn’t get to her when I fired all the servants and put the weight of all their duties upon her small shoulders. I can’t get to her. I can call her names, tell her that she’s worthless. I can undo all her hard work by stomping my muddy boots all over a freshly mopped floor and watch her clean it again with a toothbrush, or take a cane to her bottom, but I can’t get to her. She won’t break. 

Lately, whenever I give her an order she just tells me: “Yes stepmother,” with that infuriating little smile and gets to work. The girl is not human and it drives me up the wall how she can rebel, without being rebellious. Right now is a perfect example. 

Just as my daughters and I are about to leave for the royal ball, Cinderella comes strutting down the stairs wearing and old frock she’s obviously tried to spruce up herself. Wearing the kind of smile that will turn any man into a drooling idiot. That is the worst thing. Even in this ridiculous get up she looks about ten times as good as Anastasia and Drizella combined. She is a true beauty with her golden hair and her big dark eyes. She possesses the grace and warmth my daughters lack, and her body… well, let’s just say any woman loving prince would be daft to pass her up. I have no illusions. Neither of my daughters stand a snowflake’s chance in hell with the prince, but Cinderella does, and I can’t let that happen. 

So I act swiftly. I laugh and mock and tear the dress right of her, spilling buttons and ribbons all over the floor as I rip her gown to shreds, and tear the petticoat of her as well. 

I can’t keep my eyes from wandering once she’s standing in front of me in nothing but her undergarments. My eyes glide along her long neck, down her well defined collar bones and rest on the swell of her breasts just a little too long. I find it difficult not to look at her shapely legs, especially her thighs and the place where they meet. I can’t control myself and once I get tired of my own gawking I take an extra step in her direction and shove her, hard enough to make her tumble to the floor. 

Then she’s sprawled out at my feet, right where she belongs. Something stirs inside of me, purring and stretching like a cat basking in the sunlight. I look into her eyes and find her observing me, her velvety brown eyes shimmering with something indefinable. There is a small smile on her lips and I want to smack it right of her face, but I can’t. I can’t go to the ball with bloody knuckles, no matter how tempting. 

I take my daughters to the ball. I watch them make fools of themselves while the prince dances the night away with some unknown girl in an ice blue gown. The girl came in late and alone. It’s not usual for girls to attend balls without a chaperone, a fact the vicious tongues of the other women present refuse to stop talking about. I hate women, I really do. 

It’s not difficult to understand why the prince is so taken with this mysterious stranger. The girl’s beauty is unrivalled and her smile seems to light up the whole room. All eyes are on her all night, and Drizella complains about the stranger not only hogging the prince, but holding the attention of every man in the room. She is not wrong. I too find it hard to avert my eyes. The blonde is without a doubt every man’s dream. Every man’s and my own. 

When I was much younger I thought nothing of the way I sometimes found myself gazing at other women. I thought all women took notice of each other’s beauty the way I did. My first kiss was with a girl, a few months before I was to be married. She was of lower standing and much more worldly than I was at that age. She warned me to keep our secret and to never speak of such things to anyone. She told me it’s a sickness that cannot be cured, only managed, and urged me to manage it after I had given myself to her. She took my body and rejected my love, saying she had no use for it. 

She shattered that dried up little bean that is my heart and left a void in its place. I know now what she meant. I have no use for love. But god, if I could have a nice firm body to touch and to taste, I would not turn it down. 

I have never really been able to manage my sickness. I’ve never enjoyed laying with a man. Although I have learned to make the most of it and that there is pleasure to be gained from the right position and the right mindset, being with men always leaves this sour taste behind. I have never found the male body appealing. Too hairy. 

But this strange girl? I wouldn’t mind trading places with the prince. A girl like that, unchaperoned? Undoubtedly loose like a harlot. I would drag her to my chambers and ravage her till the sun came up. I am more of a man than the prince, who only dances with the mystery girl, in spite of his lust stricken expression. I try to keep my own expression in check as I watch the pair dance. It’s hard to tell if the girl feels the same way or not. The clock strikes twelve and suddenly his newly found dance partner makes a run for it and disappears into the night. Curious.

After that, the ball is pretty much over. The prince seems determined to locate the girl and after a few more dances with some possible suitors the girls and I take the carriage back home.   
Cinderella is sitting at the kitchen table when we get back. A dreamy expression on her lovely face that annoys me. If only I could understand what she’s got to be happy about I could take it from her and show her who is boss. Some days I think that’s all I want out of life nowadays, to find a way to control the brat. 

Drizella and Anastasia barely touch the tea I have her make us and after a bit of bragging they’re off to bed, leaving me and Cinderella alone in the kitchen. She sits across the table from me, wearing her usual rags and she still looks like a queen. She’s staring at me with those deep dark eyes and there’s obviously a question in them. 

“Speak child. There’s obviously something you want to ask me, so speak!”  
“Did you..,” she stammers, “did you meet someone at the ball?”  
“There were plenty of people there and I met with some of them.”  
“Did you meet a possible new husband?,” she clarifies, staring a hole in the table.  
“What on earth possesses you to ask me such a thing. What business is it of yours?,” I am stunned.   
“If you were to remarry it would surely affect me.”  
“I can’t see how it would.”  
“Your new husband might not like me, the daughter of your previous husband, hanging around you.”  
“Oh! You are under the impression that if I would just remarry you will be free of me,” I spit out.  
“Wouldn’t I be?,” her voice quivers and she finally looks into my eyes again, there is hope in hers. 

I want to banish that hope from her soul. I want to see her crumble and hear her sweet voice beg. I rise up out of my chair and climb on to the table. I am aware that it’s not exactly ladylike to mount the furniture but I don’t care. There is no one here to see me. It makes me feel powerful to act so unpredictably and animalistic, especially when I see the shock and disbelief spread out over that gorgeous face in front of me. I crawl over to her, slowly and deliberately, back arched, hips swaying, head held up, looking at her while I encroach much in the same way Lucifer would stalk his prey. I’m not a cat, I lack that amount of grace, but I don’t let that stop me. I don’t stop moving until I am face to face with the young girl and can feel her breath on my face. 

“You will never be free of me, girl,” I finally speak into that rich, smooth brown and her eyes flutter. “It doesn’t matter who I wed, whether I get married or not. You are, and always will be, mine.” I’m bluffing of course. The girl isn’t mine. I’m not locking her up, she could leave at any time. There are no chains holding her here but those of her own making. She’s sentimental, afraid to lose her childhood home, scared of what she will find in the world beyond this house. That is my luck, but I doubt she will never run away. One day she will be gone. 

She swallows loudly and I push myself up in a sitting position, dangling my legs off the table, putting my feet down on her seat, on either side of her thighs.

“You will find yourself a new husband then?,” she asks me the same question a second time and I don’t understand why she’s so determined to discover if I plan another marriage. There has to be a reason.   
“Tell me why you care if you already know it will not change your current situation? What is it to you?” I lift up my right foot and place it on her right thigh, sharp heel and all. I barely put any weight on it but immediately something changes in her eyes. It’s a subtle change and one I find difficult to place.   
“I just don’t think you should get remarried, stepmother.”

I have told the girl to call me madame at least 500 times. The message is not getting through. She stubbornly clings to using the S word. I’ve given up on trying to change it, but still it irks me. 

“And why is that?”  
“You should only marry for love.”  
The notion of marrying for love is so ridiculously naive that a chuckle bubbles up in my chest and turns into a cackle. Cinderella’s eyes widen in surprise. She stares at me as laughter pours out of me in shrieks, making it hard to catch my breath, my body heaves. She seems strangely mesmerized and I wonder if she thinks I’ve finally lost my mind. 

I ball my hands in fists and try to get myself back under control. Sure, marrying for love is a funny concept but no reason to give into a fit of giggles befitting a young maiden.  
I stomp my left foot down on her right thigh and she shrieks in pain, the delicious sound grounding me enough to fully collect myself. I clear my throat, grab her chin and stare into her eyes, slowly lifting up my right foot and stomp it back down on her other thigh hard enough for the heel to get caught in her flesh. She screams and I close my eyes for half a second to fully savour the short lived sound. 

“You think I am capable of such an emotion?,” I sneer.  
“Yes,” her answer comes fast, without hesitation.  
I arch my eyebrow at her. “And who do you suppose would love me, you stupid, naive child?”  
“Father loved you.”  
“If that is true your father was a fool.”  
“Don’t speak of him in such a way!,” she protests.  
“Awwe, does the truth hurt you? Your father was a fool, as is every man who could love me. I could never love a fool.”  
“My father was a great man! I won’t let you…,” she’s not quite yelling at me, but she’s close. I silence her with a single hard slap to her cheek, making my own hand sting. She stares at me in disbelief, even after I’ve dug my my heels into the flesh of her thighs she still can’t believe I want to hurt her. 

“What is wrong with you?,” she squeaks. “He was nothing but good to you.. aaaaah!” As she is speaking I lift up both feet at the same time, this time putting most of my weight on the heels when slam them back down on her thighs with force. She squirms but between my feet and my hand holding onto her chin there isn’t much wiggle room. 

“Why are you doing this?,” her voice is breathless and staring into her eyes I find no shyness, no hate just this intensity that is hard for me to comprehend.   
“Do you still believe anyone could love me?”  
“Yes, of course, some may even find it impossible not to love you, no matter how hard they try.”  
“I pity the fool,” I spit out, “I have no use for love.” Her face turns as white as a piece of paper and then fiery pink. She swallows thickly and I don’t get what has her so flustered. The girl truly is a mystery to me.

“I don’t want you to pity me, stepmother,” she finally whispers, sounding defeated. It takes a while for the meaning behind her words to process, and even when I finally grasp what she’s trying to tell me I cannot trust my own conclusions because they are simply too outrageous. I must be misunderstanding things.   
“I am not your mother,” I say flatly.  
“You think I love you like a mother? I don’t. But I do love you.”  
Her confession is a gentle whisper that hits me like a lightning bolt, scorching my nerve endings and driving me over the edge. Something inside takes over. 

I jump of the table, grab the obnoxious little cunt by the throat, drag her from her chair and drape her over the table. I glare into her eyes when I tighten my grip on her throat, completely blocking her airway. She doesn’t fight me, she’s a lamb waiting to be slaughtered. She’s on her back, completely defenceless, staring at me while her face turns redder and redder and her eyes start to bulge. The expression on her face strangely soft. 

I could kill her right now, put an end to my own misery and for once and all show her. But show her what? Mercy? Show her how she infuriates me? How she makes me lose control time and time again? I don’t think so. I let her go and stare at the bruises that have already formed. The price of having such delicious milky white skin. She doesn’t move, doesn’t take her eyes of me as she enjoys the simple comfort of having air to breathe. She gasps.

“I love you, stepmother,” comes another croaky and infuriating confession. Another lightning bolt to the heart, sparks shooting down my spine, the electricity gathering at my core. I shiver. I slowly pull my hand back and then slap her loudly on her cheek, harder than before. I slap her face to one side, then the other and back again, over and over. The sting in my hand isn’t distracting me from the pleasure that’s rippling below my skin, if anything it only intensifies the sensation, as do her cries of pain. 

My hand soon goes numb but her face doesn’t, at least not judging by the noise she makes. Her upper body tenses but her legs go weak and I step between her knees. Her cheeks are bruising as fast as her neck, but even worse. I love it. I love watching her face turn into an artwork of my design. It’s satisfying me in a way I haven’t been satisfied in a long while. I have caned the girl before and this is somehow much better than that, but I still want more. I want to see her entire body covered in my marks. I want to create pathways of red, purple and blue. I want her to feel me with every step she takes, not just on her skin, but everywhere. I start using both hands to slap her cheeks in tandem and her body jolts. Her legs suddenly and inexplicably close around my waist and then her hands, that have been idle at her side all this time, suddenly twist into my hair and pull my face into hers. Her lips are soft on mine, gentle, sensual.

I can’t stop myself from kissing her back, harder, with a lot more greed and teeth. She whimpers into my mouth and her hands move from my hair, wrapping around my neck as she pulls me even closer into her. I’m melting, burning down like a candle. Her mouth is hot and sweet and for a moment she makes me forget that I hate her. My desire for her takes over. I blink once and I’m moaning back into her mouth, grinding my body into her like a needy bitch, while her legs keeps me locked in place. My heart racing, my lips tasting, inhaling her scent, enjoying the closeness, the softness, the moment. Her body so warm and inviting. 

I blink twice and I’m trailing tender kisses down her bruised throat, my hands hitching up her skirt, crawling up beneath it to find purchase on her ass. Her skin is as soft as a baby’s bum, and so warm. Hot. My desire is painfully beating between my own thighs and I rub myself against her, mostly making myself even hotter. 

I blink once more and I’m tearing at her dress, letting my mouth taste every piece of skin I uncover, drinking in her soft moans and the way she caresses the back of my neck, holding me to her. Jerky shivers run through me. I want to conquer all of her in less than a minute. I’m greedy and so hungry for her it’s shameful really, but I don’t care. One heartbeat and there’s not a stitch of clothing left on her body. I reach for the small button buried between a humble nest of golden curls and my knees wobble when I find it and her gasps fill the air. “Yes,” I find myself mumbling, and “good girl.” My fingers slip and once she starts to really moan I press the palm of my hand down hard against the pebble I’ve been stroking while I let two of my fingers slip inside of her. Her legs part wider as I reach into her and try to find the right spot to tickle and once I do it doesn’t take that long for her to fall apart. 

She clings to me as her body moves on its own and then goes limp against me. 

“Oh god,” she breathes and I kiss her again. I can’t help myself. She looks so alluring with her bruised, sweaty face and her wild hair. I can’t think straight. I still want more.   
“I love you,” she whispers again and this time it breaks the spell. I wrestle myself free of her as my self control comes rushing back to me. I look at the naked body I was on top of mere seconds ago and I can’t believe what I’ve done. 

When I look into her eyes she beams. She’s too happy, I can’t bear it. This is not what I had in mind.   
“You’re a fucking whore,” I tell her and before I turn around I can see pain flashing in her eyes. I go to my room and get ready for bed. I hate myself for allowing this to happen, for being so weak in her presence, for having no self control and being sick. I lay awake for far too long before falling into a restless sleep. 

The next day the whole town is abuzz with the news that the prince has decided to search for the strange girl that ran away from him. Drizella is so excited when she tells me the news that I fear she might pass out. What she tells me sounds pretty insane. Apparently mystery girl left behind a glass slipper and whoever manages to squeeze their foot into the thing will win the prince and become his wife. Personally I think the fool is in for a rude awakening if he honestly things he can identify a girl by her shoe size, but boys will be idiots, well bred or not. Either way, Drizella sounds like she’s about willing to cut off a few toes just to make sure the shoe will fit her. I don’t know why she’s so keen on marrying the prince. Sure he is royalty, which also means he must have a royal ego. Now I’m not cupid by any means, but if Drizella has her way I predict a huge clash of egos. In my opinion a prince is the last thing she needs, but I don’t tell her that. She wouldn’t listen anyway. 

Cinderella, who is taking her sweet time dusting off all the ornaments in the room while Drizella and I are talking, just so she can listen in on the conversation is as white as a sheet. I wonder what that’s all about but I’m not keen to ask. After what happened last night I’ve been actively avoiding her. I’ve instructed her as per usual but without making any eye contact. I can barely look at the girl now without remembering the taste of her lips, or envisioning her delectable body shuddering with pleasure. Her face and neck still bear my marks and I wish I’d been more thorough.

I have a hard time dealing with all these quaint desires and the shame that springs from having them. I listen to Drizella as intently as humanly possible but my thoughts keep swirling around the same subject and my mind’s eye keeps showing me things that make my knees buckle. I don’t know how to fix that. It doesn’t help that from the corner of my eyes I find my stepdaughter staring at me constantly. My stomach somersaults and when I pick up my teacup I notice my hand is shaking. Thank god Drizella is about as observant as a rock. 

Does Cinderella hope that the glass slipper will fit her? Does she want to be a queen to that idiot prince? It would be her ticket out of here and if the prince lays eyes on her he might change his mind about this slipper business and decide to marry her instead. Whatever happens when he comes knocking on our door looking for his lost treasure, he shouldn’t get the chance to look at my Cinderella. Mine? If only that was true. If only I could brand her like cattle and keep her locked up. I think that would please me very much. I push the thought out of my mind. 

The day passes slowly. Drizella and Anastasia leave to follow the prince around and I play some piano to help speed the day long. I watch Cinderella like a hawk from the corner of my eyes, making sure she doesn’t get a chance to sneak up on me and confront me with her presence. After a while I take a long stroll through the neighbourhood, making conversation with anyone willing to talk. It beats sitting on my hands willing them not to touch anything the shouldn’t. Exchanging pleasantries with the townsfolk isn’t quite enough to keep my mind my mind from drifting back to the brat though. 

I come home just before dark, to Cinderella serving her stepsisters dinner. She greets me with a shy half whispered “hello, stepmother,” and my daughters giggle and make jokes about her battered face. For once I’d like to slap them instead but I don’t. Those girls are not used to anything and I don’t feel like dealing with any drama, so I ignore them. The same way I always ignore them when the desire to slap my offspring around grows so strong it becomes almost overwhelming. I can’t wait for those girls to become a hindrance to someone else. I have done my job, they’re all grown and I think I deserve a break from their incessant chatter and stupidity. I focus on my food instead, trying to block everything else out. 

Apparently I succeed because once I look up from my plate Cinderella is sitting at the table, staring at me. I get up immediately but right before I reach the door out of the dining room her fingers wrap around my wrist and she pulls me back. Sparks fly at the contact, my knees wobble and I am enraged.  
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, you stupid child?!,” I yell at her, “keep your filthy hands to yourself!” My anger dwindles when I turn around and am confronted with her big sad eyes.   
“What do you want from me?,” I hiss.   
“Stepmother, please,” she stammers, “I don’t want to leave here. I don’t want to marry the prince.”  
“Well then! Good news! I don’t think the prince has much interest in marrying a maid.”  
“You don’t understand. He does want to marry me, he’s looking for me.”  
“You are dreaming girl,” I chuckle, “he’s looking for his runaway love interest. Not you.”  
She turns as white as a cheek. “I was at the ball. I danced with him until the clock struck twelve.”  
I giggle. “Have you lost all your marbles? I left you here in your undergarments and that girl wore a dress someone like you could never afford.”  
She hesitates a moment and then she starts to talk. “There was an old woman, only she wasn’t really an old woman. She was my fairy godmother and…” Out comes the strangest, most unbelievable tale I’ve ever heard, told with such inner conviction that I’m certain that the beautiful brat in front of me has lost all sensibility. Once she’s finished, she puts her hands on my shoulders and looks at me pleadingly.   
“Please stepmother, please. I don’t want to be a queen. I want to stay here.”  
“You’ve been reading too many fairytales, you stupid girl. Do you fancy yourself snow white or sleeping beauty? Trust me, the prince has no interest in you and no one has ever heard of a fairytale called Cinderella.”  
“You don’t believe me.”  
“Of course I don’t believe you. No one in their right mind would. Maybe I slapped you too hard, slapped out all the sense.”  
She blushes, chewing her bottom lip while she stares at me silently.

“I can prove it,” she finally says.  
“By all means.”  
I shake my head as I watch the girl run up the stairs. I’m really curious to see what she’ll come up with but I don’t think for a moment she’ll bring back anything that will convince me.

When she comes back to me she puts a glass slipper down on the dining table. My jaw drops and I stare silently at it for quite some time. This does make me believe her story. I pick up the slipper. It’s glass but there is something off about it, glass isn’t bouncy and this shoe kind of is. It’s beautiful, but what kind of twisted mind would ever come up with glass shoes? As if regular heels aren’t torturous enough. Cinderella takes a seat on the chair next to me and puts the slipper on, it fits her perfectly and when I look at her face I no longer see my stepdaughter. Sitting next to me is the girl that ran away from the prince. She takes off the exotic footwear and goes back to looking like she always does.

“Do you believe me now?”  
I nod slowly. “”But that doesn’t mean he’ll find you. I mean the guy is obviously an idiot if he thinks he can identify a woman by her shoe. Realistically he’ll find someone to fill that shoe before he ever gets here.”  
“You don’t get it. This slipper is enchanted, it will only fit me. Please don’t let him find me.”  
“Why not? Don’t you like the prince? I bet every girl in town wishes that shoe will fit her. Why don’t you?”  
“They didn’t meet the prince.”  
“So he’s a twat. He’s a very rich twat. Don’t you want to be a queen?”  
Her hands play with the shoe in front of her and she won’t look at me.   
“No.”  
“Why not?”  
Just as I am about to repeat my question her answer comes in a whisper.  
“You know why.”  
“I really don’t. Why on earth would anyone choose to be a maid when they could be a queen?”  
She puts the heel down with a thud and raises her head, soft eyes meeting mine.   
“Because I love you.”  
Just because I knew what was coming doesn’t mean I’m prepared for the effect of those words. Tingles down my spine and my knees grow weak. I’m like a young girl with one of those dumb crushes. I feel stupid and anger boils up inside me. 

“Where was all this love when you snuck out to dance with this prince?,” I ask, “where was this love when you seduced him?”  
“I didn’t seduce him.”  
“Oh but you did. You went there to seduce him and now you don’t want to face the consequences of your actions.”  
“I just wanted to go to the ball with you, to see you in that dress you wore. You looked so…”  
“Enough!,” my hand slams down on the table when I interrupt her. “You must be daft to think I would believe your lies! You wanted to throw yourself at the prince, and guess what, princess? Now the bloody fool wants to throw himself at you. Actions have consequences, so deal with them!”  
I get up and head to my room, she follows me like a puppy.  
“Please, please, stepmother. Help me, please.”  
“You made your bed, now lie in it!,” I blurt out when I turn around to lock the door behind me.

I feel like I barely escaped from giving in and when I lay down I’m still absurdly aroused just from being around her. It’s infuriating. One moment of weakness and now I’m paying for it. 

It seems like I will be losing Cinderella sooner than expected and I don’t like that idea one bit. Still, I am torn. Half of me wants to make sure that twat of a prince will never find her and the other half wants to punish her by letting him have her. As far as I know there is no way a commoner can ever deny a request from the prince, so if he finds her, she will have to marry him. It would server her right. After all, she did disobey a direct order from me by going to that ball at all. 

But what if this is all just an elaborate hoax to push me into letting her marry the guy? Her confessions of love only started after she met him. I’m not sure I can believe them, in fact, the more I think about it the less likely it sounds that she, of all people could love me. What girl in her right mind would choose her wicked stepmother over a prince? She must think I am stupid. Maybe I am because oh, she almost had me convinced. In my defence she did kiss me rather convincingly and I am 99% certain that climax wasn’t faked. Still, the little cunt is trying to manipulate me, trying to force my hand and let her have what she truly desires. 

I decide to play along. I know just the place to tuck her away and in the process I will make sure she’ll regret ever asking for my help. She’ll regret trying to manipulate me, hell, she’ll regret ever having been born.


End file.
